As a simple sack, Ezra Pound, poet grandee in the turbulence, would carry on. His friends and doormats knew whereupon he stood. And he wasn’t always complete, wrong or otherwise. Some freshets smell like tuckered, specifically instruments with which tucks are made. The merest tuck, in the fabric, becomes a given. If taken, the cheerless will survive with logopoeia as operating system, glossary. flourish, sublime and gross nature. Pound heroically bound up and out, requiring adjustment and more reading, even some of the words. Words stayed crooked, fusty, bleary while also rated rational. No more maundering stars unless settled upon. This simple wanting sack in time for outermost scuttle but absolutely like pure. Personal oblivion counts for zero but zero itself scores as new excitement. So glad that words were there to be there, for the sack of everything held dear.
It begins with a scanning of light, a settlement of words. The lightly fracture of Bird sound begins in the office of seeing. Not sentiment but sense, as cool as Green in the Early days. Pasture resists nonpasture, no one Refers to none. All remains including nothing. Morning Is belief and there simply there. Tides go freshly to the point.
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